


The twin of my soul, 'till the end of time

by Clarounette



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarounette/pseuds/Clarounette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"James and Michael and a haunted house. (Or a haunted castle in Scotland or Ireland, as you please!) Stormy nights and sputtering candles and unquiet ghosts."</p>
<p>Written for Significantowl's prompt for McFassy Autumn Extravaganza.</p>
<p>Not exactly what she had in mind, but I hope she likes it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The twin of my soul, 'till the end of time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [significantowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/gifts).



> Title comes from the song Love After Death, by Rage

Michael had said: “We’ll have a lovely weekend together.”

Little had he known that it would change their lives forever.

  


It had been months since they last spent more than a couple of days together, at home, in London. They wouldn’t either, this time: they both were free for Halloween’s weekend and Michael had booked a room in a nice – and remote – hotel near Newton Stewart, at the edge of one of the most beautiful forest of Scotland, Galloway Forest Park, where they’d enjoy fall’s rusty colors and invigorating weather.

When their plane landed at Glasgow, it was raining heavily. Michael sighed, defeated.

“Don’t worry, “James said. “It’s a typical weather, after all.” He rose on his tiptoes and whispered in Michael’s ear: “That means we’ll get to take a long… hot… bath… together…”

The last word – as well as James’ breath on his skin – sent shivers down Michael’s spine. He looked definitely livelier when they sat in their rented car.

  


It was late when they left the A714 and entered the forest. Under the canopy of oaks, moon and stars disappeared. The black shroud of the night enveloped them. The car’s lights pierced through the darkness, but Michael couldn’t see past a few yards. It felt like James and he were the last humans in a deserted world. The silence was only broken by the rain, and by the pop song playing on the radio. But the music seemed to fade to a murmur before it even reached their ears.

  


Two bright eyes suddenly looked at them from the middle of the road. Michael turned the steering wheel to the right, and lost control of the car. It spun wildly on the wet tar until the front wheels hit the mud on the side road. The car slowed down brutally, and Michael’s left arm stretched out in front of James in a protective gesture. The vehicle finally stopped its dangerous waltz.

“Are you alright?” Michael asked.

James’ answer was less than reassuring. “Yeah…” he said in a dreamy voice.

Michael shook his shoulder. “James?"

"Yeah, sorry. I’m okay. What about you?"

"Good.” James wasn’t sure whether it was his answer or just a comment on James’ well-being.

Michael turned the key and the car started right away. But when he pushed the gearshift on D, the vehicle didn’t move an inch. The wet noises coming from under them suggested that they were stuck in the mud.

Michael hit the wheel. “Fuck!” No chance of escaping, with darkness, rain and mud against them. They needed help.

James took out his cell phone and frowned at the signal displayed on the screen. “No phone here. You?"

"Nope,” Michael answered after he had looked at his own phone. “What are we going to do now?”

James tried to appease him. “Look, the GPS says one mile to the inn. We can walk.” He went for the kill with a bright smile as his deadly weapon.

Armed with a small flashlight and two ancient umbrellas, they began their journey to their hotel, pulling their luggage behind them, by the side of the road.

  


They hadn’t walked more than five hundred yards when Michael took notice of a light, deeper into the forest. He said nothing until they reached a dirt road with a sign reading: Carson’s Manor. Further down the path, the lights obviously came from a large house.

Michael turned to James: “We’re going to ask for help there. Maybe call a repairman with a tow truck. What do you think?”

James was still hesitating when the sky seemed to break, the rain falling harder than before. His umbrella snapped in his hand, leaving him unprotected. He didn’t answer and started to run to the manor, Michael on his tail.

The wind blowing sideways soon managed to soak them to the bones, and they were quite relieved when they walked up the steps of the manor to the door. Thanks to the two long wings on each side of the house, and a balcony on the second floor above the entry, this terrible shower was a burden no more.

  


James knocked on the door. An old man in a grey suit welcomed them. “Good evening, Sir. How may I help you?” he asked politely.

James answered: “Er… hi! Our car is stuck on the side road and we'd like to call a repairman."

"Of course. Follow me, please.” He stepped aside, holding the heavy mahogany door for them.

Once they were inside and the door was closed, the old butler – he so obviously was one – showed them to a luxurious private office and library. On the desk stood an antique device that could have been a phone, or a strange art deco sculpture.

“Definitely a phone,” Michael thought when the butler took it to his mouth. The man dialed up a random number, frowned, tried again, pushed twice on a Bakelite button and hang up. Michael knew what the man was going to say before he so much as opened his mouth.

“I'm terribly sorry. The line seems dead.”

A singing voice, young and gay, came from the hallway. “What is it, Mason?” They hurried out of the room on Mason’s trail.

A pretty woman, barely in her twenties, was walking down the stairs, her lovely gown floating ghostly around her silk clad ankles. Her curled black hair was fashioned in an elaborate bun. Gold and pearl trinkets rang at her thin wrists.

The old butler – Mason – bowed respectfully. “Those two gentlemen needed to use the phone to get help, my Lady. But the line is down again, I fear."

"Awww poor things,” she said as if James and Michael weren't in the same room.

“We won't bother you any longer,” James said, embarrassed.

“Nonsense!” This time, the voice was lower and stronger, and came from the office's entryway. From a man that they hadn't seen when they had tried the phone. He was young and elegant, exuding that kind of pride that comes from generations of Lords and Princes. But his sweet smile – as well as a zit badly concealed on his forehead – gave him a pleasant countenance.

He spoke again: “I wouldn't be a Carson if I let you go out in the rain. You'll spend the night here, and by morning, you should be able to call again. In the meantime, you'll be our guests.” He turned to Mason. “See that dinner is made for four instead of two."

"Yes, Sir.” Mason disappeared at the end of the hallway.

The young lady erupted in a peal of laughter. “Oh, Rory, is that true? Are we really going to have guests tonight?"

"Sure, my love. What a wonderful anniversary it's going to be.”

The young woman ran down the stairs and jumped in her husband's arms, under the compassionate stares of James and Michael. After all, there were worse ways to spend a romantic weekend than to be with a sweet couple in a remote manor in the forest.

  


The Carsons went through a huge double door, hand in hand, without a word. After a minute or two, James and Michael followed them.

The warm room – a fire was lit, that was throwing moving shadows on the walls – smelt of spices and dead flowers, like a mummy's tomb. Rory stood by the fireplace, a glass in his hand, while his wife sat on the couch with a book. They were separated by then feet at least, and a glass coffee table, but their whole bodies tended toward each other, an invisible link between them keeping them from being two different persons. Once, Rory licked his index finger when his wife turned a page, and se looked tipsy even though she wasn’t drinking. The Lady rose when she saw James and Michael on the threshold. “Come and sit, young men. We will talk until dinner is served. I want to know everything about you.”

James joined her, Michael sitting on a nearby armchair. Rory Carson not even glanced at them. The smile had vanished from his young face – although the zit remained – and he now looked gloomy and worried. Michael couldn't fathom what was bothering him, besides the fact that it was related to the hour, as the young man regularly checked the ticking clock before he stared again at his wife with pain in his eyes.

As if in another dimension, James and Lady Carson were tweeting happily. Michael retreated in his mind and stared at the rich and ancient drawing-room: the high windows, the dark wood of the furniture, the faded colors of the walls. Old and comfy. Sumptuous and dead. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear Rory walk to him. Michael started when the young Lord spoke from behind his chair. “You are a couple, aren't you?”

Michael didn't know how to answer that. The Carsons seemed old fashioned enough to resent the kind of relationship James and he shared, and he refused to offend the kind people who welcomed them in their home. Michael wasn't ashamed of his love for James, but he didn't need to shove the peculiarity of it in anyone's face. He'd always thought that love was a private matter.

Lord Carson wasn't fazed by Michael's silence. “Love is a beautiful thing, mister Fassbender. It's also a great paradox: it's a fragile rose that you should protect and nurture; but it's also stronger than death.” He didn't wait for Michael's reply and went back to his quiet corner near the fireplace, and his glass of Scotch.

It wasn't until the next morning – in another house, in another realm – that Michael realized that they had never told their names to their hosts.

  


They spent the best part of an hour in the drawing-room, until Mason came in and announced that dinner was served. They all walked to the dining-room. It was colder only because it was much bigger. Fire roared in the fireplaces at both ends, and five candlelights lightened the space, the ceiling disappearing in the shadows. The windows pierced dark holes in the high walls, drops of water running down tem like the tears of a black-veiled mourner.

Their plates were set at one end of the table, surrounded by more cutlery than Michael had ever had in his kitchen. Scarlet flames danced on the delicate white porcelain of the dishes. It seemed the room was ablaze.

They sat, James and Michael side by side, Lord and Lady Carson in front of them. James touched a fork, turned to Michael and whispered: “Silver...” Of course.

Soon Mason walked in from behind an oriental screen with a large pot of steaming soup. He served them the scalding hot preparation and left the tureen on the table. He came back with a bottle of wine. He did the same, vanishing and reappearing, back and forth, several times throughout the dinner, a tophat-less failure of a magician with a single prestige in his repertoire.

Conversations ran merrily, about art and business and politics. The food was good, and the warmth pleasant, and it lulled Michael into a peaceful and trusting comfort. James seemed positively charmed by the young Lady Carson, and for a second, Michael's eyes were more green than grey, jealousy setting its pointy teeth in his heart, before James took his hand and smiled at him. He held a special place in James' life, and should never doubt it.

Vegetables, poultry, fish; the dinner was a real feast! But at the same time they stuffed their mouths with delicious dishes, the Carsons' cheeks seemed to hollow and their eyes to darken. Michael thought it was just shadows playing tricks on the youthful faces of their hosts. But as time passed, they also grew more silent, until the only sounds remained the cracking of wood in the fireplaces, and the clicking of their forks on the plates.

A loud noise came from upstairs, like the ripping of an ancient and mouldy cloth. The Carsons showed no sign of having heard it. They kept eating, with ever less appetite though. James and Michael, with unease, looked at each other. When a second crack resounded, James jumped in his chair. “What...?” Michael shook his head. Voices seemed foreign in the quietness of the dinning-room. “It is no place for a human being,” Michael realized.

  


As if he had heard Michael's thoughts, Rory Carson laid his fork on the linen. “It is time, Morna, my love.” The young Lady looked at her plate, resigned, then at her husband, and smiled both the brightest and the saddest smile Michael had ever seen. The Carsons joined hands above their plates, staring at each other. For an instant, everything froze. Then the doorbell rang.

“Mason, the door, if you please,” Lord Carson said gravely, still looking at his wife with the purest admiration.

“Yes, Sir.” The old butler left the dinning-room at a heavy pace.

They waited. And waited. Michael nervously took James' hand. Something was coming. He didn't know what, but anticipation begot goose bumps on his arms.

Suddenly, a sharp and deadly sound came from quite close. Michael could have sworn a balloon had exploded in the entryway, but it made no sense.

Lightning scratched the sky with silver claws, followed by a growling thunder. The room disappeared in a white flash of light, blinding both James and Michael. At the same time, Morna Carson began to shriek, her voice painfully high compared with the low rumble of the storm. Then the room went dark, candles and fires blown by a mysterious wind.

“Michael!” James called.

Michael was still holding his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “I'm here. Hold on a second.” He looked for the flashlight in his pocket, and lit it. He swept the ray of light across the walls and the furniture. Boards of a dark wood older than Michael showed through the pale yellow of the wallpaper. The table, broken, and at some places nothing more than piles of sawdust, was the only remaining furniture, chairs and cupboards long gone. The windows looked like empty sockets, their broken glass allowing the heavy rain to flood the room.

James stared at the ruined dining-room, puzzled and scared. “Michael, what happened?”

Michael didn't answer and rushed to the entryway, pulling James by the hand. Their lonely luggage were still there, in the middle of a blackened hallway which walls were covered with moss. The unhinged door swung with the wind, offering glimpses of the ruins of the balcony fallen on the steps.

Michael and James took the bags and ran outside. They ran to their car, to their world. At the sign, no more than a broken twig sticking out of the ground like a rotten tooth, Michael dared a look behind. The manor, the house of a lovely couple named Rory and Morna Carson, stood in the overgrown garden, decaying, its splendor buried under decades of abandonment.

They reached the car, and while James threw their luggage on the back seat, Michael slid behind the steering wheel and turned the key. Now on Drive, Michael stepped on the accelerator, pushing the pedal to the ground, the engine roaring and howling its anger. The wheels turned in vain in the dirt until they somehow touched solid ground. The car jumped forward and left its muddy tomb. Without another glance at the road on their right when they drove past it, they kept going until they finally arrived at their hotel, soaked, tired and afraid.

  


Their landlady – a mid-sixties stout woman with a warm smile – offered them to drink a cup of tea near the fireplace while her son filled the tub with hot water. They accepted gladly. She kept them company.

“We apologize for arriving this late,” James said when his teeth finally stopped clattering.

She brushed away their excuses with a wave of her hand. “What happened to you?” she asked with concern. James was pale as death, and Michael’s frown wouldn’t disappear.

“We had an accident on our way here and ended up stuck in the mud. We asked for help at the Carson Manor.”

The old woman gasped and signed herself when she heard that name. “What a foolish thing to do!” she stated. “I'm glad you came back safe.”

Curious, James asked: “We experienced something strange, tonight. Can you explain it to us?”



"I can give you no explanation, my boy. But I can tell you a story.”

She threw a log in the fire and sat back in her comfy armchair.

“Lord and Lady Carson were quite young when Rory inherited the house and the title from his father. It wasn't long after World War II. I wasn't even born yet, and all I know, it was my mother who told me.

Rory and Morna were young and rich and pretty, but they also were very nice. They gave food and shelter to the poor. One night, on Halloween – they couldn't have been there for more than two years at that time – a drunken man came and asked for what he thought he was entitled to get. We don't know what happened exactly, but this man went mad, and killed the butler first, and then Lord and Lady Carson. They left no child, and no one ever lived in the manor after that.

But it is said that, on Halloween, they come back and feast again, in their house. And they look as in love with each other as they were when they were still alive.”

  


After the tea and the hot bath, James and Michael retreated silently to their room. Tomorrow, they would have fun in the woods, but tonight, they only needed each other. In the large bed, they kept close, hand in hand and forehead against forehead. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same thoughts.

They weren't scared anymore. Because now they knew the story of Rory and Morna Carson, and they knew that true love can never die. They would be together until the end of time.


End file.
